The Night of the Cava aparoea
by The Wild Wild Whovian
Summary: I recently read the classic short story 'Pigs is Pigs" and thought I would give it the Wild Wild West treatment…


The whistle of the Wanderer sounded its long and lonely hoot as the train glided to a protracted halt in the Denver railroad yards, ending at last with an ear-numbing _hisssss_ as the engineer vented steam.

"We're here," proclaimed James West. He sat down at the desk in the varnish car, opened the set of fake books, and began tapping out a message to their boss Col Richmond, informing him that they had arrived and would be at his local office as soon as possible. Once that message was completed, he sent off a second telegram, this one to another member of the Secret Service who had been looking forward to their arrival with the package they were bringing him from New Orleans.

Meanwhile Jim's partner Artemus Gordon was bending over that very package. "Here you go, Pete, Repeat," he said jovially as he threaded a leaf of cabbage in through the slats of the wooden crate they were about to deliver to the Secret Service Academy here in Denver. "I hope your journey has been a pleasant one, and that you'll consider this _federal_ express delivery service again should the need arise."

Behind him, Artie heard Jim snicker. "I think you've gotten a bit attached to our guests, Artie," said Jim.

"Well, they _are_ cute little critters, aren't they?" Artie replied, peering through the slats to watch the furry pair munching on their snack.

"You could ask Prof Montague to order you a pair as well. He's going to be using them for research; you could do the same."

"Yeah…" said Artie slowly.

"You don't like the idea of using guinea pigs for scientific research?" said Jim.

Artie shrugged. "Well, it's more that I don't like the idea of using critters I might become fond of for scientific research. Besides…" he added, but then said nothing more.

"Besides?" Jim prompted at length.

"Well, there's also the fact that the guinea pigs live in a cage. I've come to have, shall we say, _misgivings_ about keeping as a pet an animal that must be caged so that it doesn't escape from you. They aren't like dogs or cats or even horses, animals that become attached to their owners and willingly stay with them."

Jim nodded toward the corridor. "You realize we keep the pigeons in cages in the small lab down there."

"That's true, we do. But the pigeons are working animals, not pets. And besides that, they're _homing_ pigeons, so when they're set loose, they come right back here to the train."

"You said 'pets' again," Jim pointed out.

Artie smiled fondly at the crate containing Pete and Repeat. "That's right, I did. I guess if I were to ask Prof Montague to secure me a guinea pig or two, I wouldn't likely do so except to keep them as pets. Of course," he added with a shrug, "that wouldn't really be fair to the guinea pigs. We keep such odd hours, and I wouldn't want them to get hungry while we're out working day and night."

"Orrin Cobb could tend to them," Jim pointed out.

Artie shook his head. "That's not in his job description. Our engineer has enough to do without me palming the responsibility of seeing to my critters off on him on top of it all!"

"Well," said Jim slowly. "As long as you've thought this through."

Artie gazed longingly into the crate for a few more seconds, then squared his shoulders. "I have. We turn these little honeys over to the good professor, and that's that." He shrugged on his jacket, then popped his hat onto his head. "We'll need a carriage to take the cage over to the Academy."

"Right. I'll see the horses settled in at the nearest livery stable while you go hail us a carriage."

"I'll do that, Jim." And as Jim headed down the corridor for the baggage car to collect Blackjack and Henry and take them to the stable, Artie hefted the crate and made his careful way down the steps of the rear platform to pass through both the railroad yards and the depot to find a carriage.

The wooden crate got heavy in a hurry and was awkward to carry to boot, and Artie stepped lively through the depot, making for the front door as swiftly as possible.

But then one of his wards squeaked.

Something wrong? Artie glanced quickly around to find somewhere to set the cage down to check on the guinea pigs. Ah, there was an unoccupied desk; that would do. Artie eased the cage down gently and peeked through the slats. "You folks ok?" he murmured. Hmm, he didn't think anything was wrong. Probably only the motion of being carried. He started to take up the crate again.

"What d'you think yer after doin' there, hmm?" came a crabby voice. "That there's me desk! Says so right on the nameplate: Mike Flannery, Stationmaster! So you better be after gettin' yer luggage of me desk, an' that right snappy!"

Artie turned to see an angry man in uniform bearing down on him. "I beg your pardon, Mr, ah, Flannery. I just needed to check on the guinea pigs for a second. We'll be going." He made to lift the crate again.

"Pigs!" exclaimed Flannery. "You never put _pigs_ on me desk, did you, you great oaf! Let me see that." He leaned over the crate and peered between the slats. "Pigs? What kinda furrin pigs is that? I ain't never seen no pigs what look like them little bas… er… things."

"They're guinea pigs," Artie explained patiently. "From South America. Genus _Cava_, species _aparoea_. Not related to the ordinary barnyard pig at all. They…"

"South America!" said Flannery suspiciously. "I'll be seein' yer shippin' order then." He held out a hand.

"Shipping order?" Artie stared at the stationmaster, caught flatfooted. There had been a shipping order, yes, when they'd picked up the guinea pigs in New Orleans, the paperwork that pertained to the little pair's trip across South America and the final leg by ship through the Gulf of Mexico, but Artie had no idea what had become of the shipping order by now. And he and Jim had needed no such papers to carry the critters aboard the Wanderer on the final leg to Denver as a favor to Prof Montague. Or so they had thought.

"No shippin' order?" said Flannery. "I see! Smugglin' dangerous furrin pigs into Denver, are you? Seekin' to undermine the common domestic pig trade! Yer an anarchist, that's what you are!"

Now the very first thing that sprang into the mind of Artemus Gordon in response to such an amazing statement as that was the following: "_What?_ What kind of colossal, blame-fool nonsense is that, you unmitigated nincompoop?" By the time, however, that the words actually exited his mouth, Artie's native politeness had taken over and edited his reply down to: "Excuse me?"

"Anarchist! Bringin' in furrin pigs to upset me adopted land's eckie-nomic stability! But yer never gonna be gettin' away with it, so you won't!" And suddenly he was hollering, "Guards! Guards! Do yer dooty an' clap hands on this man whilst I find me a police officer!"

…

Col Richmond pinched the bridge of his nose. "Arrested. For smuggling pigs, of all things. Artemus, I'm disappointed in you."

Artie, languishing in a cell in the Denver jail, shook his head and gave his superior a fuller account of what had occurred.

"I see," said Richmond at last. "Then you didn't actually call the stationmaster…" He consulted the arresting officer's write-up of the proceedings. "…a tin-plated dictator with delusions of godhood?"

"Ah. Well." Artie's forefinger came up and thumped at his nose.

Richmond gave a grand sigh. "And where was Jim during all this?"

"Taking our horses to the livery stable, since we would need a carriage to deliver the guin…"

The cellblock door clanged open and in rushed a gray-haired older gentleman wearing a white lab coat. "Where are they? What's become of my guinea pigs?" cried the querulous voice of Prof Montague. The master gadgeteer of the Denver Secret Service Academy, having been permitted entry by the jailer, hurried over to join Col Richmond, then peered anxiously at Artemus.

"Oh, hello, Professor," said Artie. "I, um… well, I'm not entirely sure. The last I knew as they were hauling my keister off to these five-star accommodations," and he waved a hand at the cell he was ensconced within, "I could hear Mike Flannery the stationmaster yelling that he was confiscating the pigs. 'Pigs is pigs!' he proclaimed. And then…"

The cellblock door clanged open once again, this time to admit a man in a pale blue bolero suit, his hands shackled together behind him. He was being escorted by two big burly policemen, both of whom bore incipient bruising about the chins and eyes. While one policeman held the new prisoner securely, the other unlocked the cell adjoining Artie's. The pair then tossed their prisoner within, locked the cell back up firmly, brushed off their hands, and left.

"Hullo, Jim," said Artie. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Hi, Artie," said Jim. He glanced through the bars at their boss and added, "Col Richmond. Oh, and Prof Montague! I didn't expect to see you here."

"I'm looking for my guinea pigs!"

"Ah. Well then, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," said Jim as he nonchalantly lifted a little gadget out of the back of his waistband and set about unshackling his arms. "Mr Flannery of the train station insists they are central to an anarchist plot to overthrow the economy of Denver and the United States at large, and he has confiscated them 'for the good of his adopted land.' "

"I see," said Col Richmond. "That doesn't explain what _you_ are doing here, James."

"Ah. Well, I was simply pointing out to Mr Flannery the… errors in his reasoning when he started yelling for the guards."

"Pointing out the errors, hmm?" said Richmond. "Could we have your exact words, please?"

With a small smile, Jim replied, "I told him he was an utter fool, and when he protested, I upped the ante to a gold-plated idiot."

"Oh, _gold_-plated!" Artie interjected. "And here I only had him clad in tin…"

Richmond sighed. "So now both of my two best agents are stuck here in the hoosegow, just when I need the pair of you out there in the field on this new assignment! I'd better go talk to the judge and see if I can get the charges dismissed." He went to the door and knocked for a guard. "Coming, Prof Montague?" he added.

"Oh. I… yes, yes, yes, I suppose I should. Pity about my guinea pigs… Ah! Perhaps I might go have a word with the stationmaster!"

Artie smiled brightly and waved a hand at the other four cells. "You could certainly do that, Professor. After all, there's plenty of room here at the Hotel Anarchy!"

"Oh. Yes. Quite." Montague dithered a bit, then followed Col Richmond from the cell block.

Artie laid back and folded his hands behind his head. "Well, James my boy, this is another fine mess we've gotten into, wouldn't you say?"

"I was surprised to spot the guinea pigs' crate there in the depot still, with no sign of you," Jim replied. "Anarchists? He really thought we were anarchists?"

"I don't know, Jim. Can the word 'thought' really be applied to whatever was going on within that man's brain?" Artie shook his head.

"Well," said Jim, stretching out on his narrow cot, "no doubt the judge will listen to reason and let us out of here shortly."

"No doubt," Artie echoed. Silence reigned for a few seconds, then Artie spoke up again. "But what if he doesn't, Jim? What if the judge is as unreasonable as Flannery?"

"That's not very likely," said Jim. "However, if worst comes to worst, I suppose Col Richmond will take it up the chain of command."

"What, to Pres Grant?" Artie began to chuckle. "Oh, can you imagine that? We both know how gladly the president suffers fools! Great Scott, Flannery'll never know what hit him!"

"He might well lose his job over this," Jim commented.

"Yeah? And serves him right! Any man that dim shouldn't be in charge of a lemonade stand, much less a railway station!"

Again silence reigned briefly, until at last Jim said, "Do you really want that, Artie? For Flannery to lose his job?"

Artie drew in a long breath and let it out in a great sigh. "Not really. As long as we can go our way pretty soon here, that will be enough. Oh, and the guinea pigs! I certainly hope ol' Flannery is treating Pete and Repeat well."

Jim chuckled. "And the rest."

"Hmm? What's that?" Artie rolled over and propped himself on an elbow. "What rest?"

Jim cracked a smile. "You hadn't noticed?"

"Ah… noticed what?"

"Just that Pete's been looking a good bit rounder these past couple of days."

Artie stared at his partner in bewilderment for perhaps half a second. And then the penny dropped. "Pete? Really? Great jumping balls of St Elmo's Fire, I guess I need to get my eyes checked!"

"Because you didn't notice that Pete was expecting?"

"Because I didn't notice that Pete was the female! After all, Jim, _I'm_ the one who named them!"

…

The judge, bless both his heart and his superior analytical capabilities, dropped the charges and turned James West and Artemus Gordon loose posthaste to return to their regular duties as Secret Service agents. They wrapped the case up in short order, and once the trial was over and the criminals were on their way to their new permanent address, Jim and Artie boarded the Wanderer and set off to San Francisco for their next assignment.

It was several months later that the agents returned to Denver to take on yet another case there. As they were riding their horses past the depot on their way to meet with Col Richmond, something caught Artie's eye. He nudged Jim and pointed surreptitiously with his chin, drawing Jim's attention to a building project going on just outside the station.

Jim took a look as well. "Looks like cages, Artie."

"That's what I was thinking. And lots of them. Care to wander over and have a look at what those cages might be housing?"

Jim crooked an eyebrow at his partner. "Oh, surely those cages aren't for Pete, Repeat, and their descendants! Flannery wouldn't have been fool enough to keep them confiscated all this time! I'm sure he handed them over to Prof Montague long ago, especially after Pete had their first litter." And he and Artie rode on.

Later that afternoon, after speaking with Col Richmond, the agents paid a visit to the Academy's master gadgeteer. Prof Montague eagerly showed off to the pair all his latest new gizmos and contraptions. And after he and Artie had gleefully burbled massive amounts of technobabble at each other for at least half an hour, Jim broke in with, "By the way, how are Pete and Repeat doing?"

"Ah… excuse me? Who?"

Artie rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck. "Oh, the, um, guinea pigs we got into so much trouble with at the depot the last time we were in Denver. Those were the names I gave them. The stationmaster didn't give you too much trouble about returning the pair to you, did he?"

"Him? Hmph! Appalling man! Why, he tried to have _me_ arrested the same as he did you, claiming I was part of that imaginary anarchists' scheme as well! It was only the fact that Col Richmond insisted I be escorted by the Chief of Police himself to vouch for me when I attempted to retrieve my guinea pigs, that kept me out of jail!"

Jim and Artie exchanged a glance. "But… he _did_ give you your guinea pigs, didn't he?" asked Artie.

"Indeed he did not!" said Montague indignantly. "Why, I had to requisition a brand new pair of the animals, all the way up from South America again! And they ought to be arriving by freight, oh…" He scrabbled at his desk for a moment, then found a calendar. "Ah, here it is. They should be arriving… why, any day now." He smiled. "Good. I've been waiting for them for ever so long, you know."

…

At the railroad yards, a freight train pulled into the station with a hoot of its whistle and a great cloud of steam. A horde of men equipped with carts, handtrucks, and strong, burly arms swarmed the boxcars to unload them, and soon one of the men, bearing a wooden crate balanced on his shoulder, stepped into the station and sought out the stationmaster.

Flannery scowled at the man. "An' what're you after wantin', hmm?"

"Bill of lading for you, mister," said the deliveryman. With his free hand he yanked a slip of paper from his back pocket and unfurled it with a snap. "Says here I'm to have you sign for this shipment, to be forwarded to, er…" He glanced at the name. "…a Prof A Montague, care of the Secret Service Academy." He paused, then mused, "If it's so secret, why is its name right there on the academy?"

"Give that here!" groused Flannery. He snatched away the paper and read it over narrowly – then blanched. Eyes like saucers, he whimpered, "No… no, not _more_ o' them! No, no, not more _pigs!"_

The deliveryman stared at him. "You ok, mister?"

Pointing an unsteady finger at the crate, the stationmaster said, "What's in there? You be settin' that down on me desk here so I can have me a look!"

"Ah… all right, mister." The man did as he was told, and watched in concern as a shaky Flannery shaded his face to peer between the slats of the crate to view its contents.

The next moment: _"NOOOOOO!"_ With a shriek like a banshee, the stationmaster leapt back as if he'd been stung by a whole hiveful of bees. And the next moment after that, tearing at his hair and whooping like a madman, Flannery took off running out of the train station, and that was the last anyone ever saw or heard of Mike Flannery, stationmaster.

In Denver, at least.

**FIN**

* * *

_Author's note: Taxonomic names tend to be pretty fluid, so that the scientific name for guinea pigs is no longer "_Cava aparoea_." I chose to use that name for my story, however, because that's the designation given to the guinea pigs in __Ellis Parker Butler's classic short story "Pigs Is Pigs" – and by a character named Prof Gordon, no less!_

"_Pigs Is Pigs" is available online, easily accessible, and in my opinion well worth a read, although the modern reader should be advised that Mike Flannery's Irish accent is _exceedingly_ thick – I toned it down considerably for this story. Also, he tends to use some ethnic epithets that were apparently pretty common about a century ago when the story was written, but are a bit shocking nowadays, so _caveat lector_ (let the reader beware)_.


End file.
